


Muscles better and nerves more.

by river_of_words



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Other, Poisoning, Regeneration (Doctor Who), Sickfic, The Doctor (Doctor Who) Uses They/Them Pronouns, Vomiting, christian allusions because i cant help myself, god look at these tags something must be wrong with me, haha 'regeneration sickness' i mean yes technically but not in that sense, violence as intimacy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_of_words/pseuds/river_of_words
Summary: The Doctor's habit of putting stuff in their mouth gets them in trouble when they eat something that messes with regeneration.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	Muscles better and nerves more.

The first steps into hell didn’t look that bad. If the Doctor had realised they were the steps to hell, they might have at least _considered_ not going down them. But as it was, the first steps into hell just looked like a vague nausea and a feeling they maybe shouldn’t have eaten those mysterious leaves the nice aliens at the party shared with them the day before.

The Doctor was pretty sure it had been some sort of drug because everyone there had been having a lot of fun, but they hadn’t noticed any effects in themself, good or ill. Until the next day, that was. But even then, nothing particularly noteworthy. Nothing that made them question what these stairs might be leading them into.

The second step into hell was a feeling of doom. Okay, to be fair, a feeling of inevitability. But the Doctor preferred doom. They had regenerated before, they knew what the looming shadow of death felt like. Doom was just more honest about the experience.

Their first guess was that Time was being weird. That tended to be their first guess; feel like you’re dying, check the timelines to see where you screwed up, rewind a bit, fix it. Don’t die.

But Time wasn’t being weird, it turned out. And the Tardis confirmed for them.

So their second guess was a call for help. Someone somewhere was in trouble and reaching out psychically. They looked for this person, who they might be, and where, and when, for almost two weeks (Tardis time). Couldn’t find anything, anyone. Nobody was giving them this feeling. This doom was coming from them. _For_ them.

At this point, the Doctor – notoriously slow – still had not noticed the mouth of the horror they were being swallowed by. They’d examined the teeth and thought them curious, but, completely expectedly, they’d gone on with their life. Set the Tardis navigation to random and found some nice hidden gems of the universe, wandered some alien marketplaces, made some crying kids laugh again.

But underneath it all, there was this doom. Growing. A bubble expanding, slowly filling them, pressing up against their skin until it felt like bursting, crawling up their throat like something was trying to get out.

They knew this feeling. But they ignored this feeling. Because it wasn’t possible. They weren’t injured. They weren’t dying. So they weren’t regenerating. They just weren’t. And yet, they had the dreadful suspicion that if this bubble popped, it would give way to all-encompassing, transformative flames.

When the mouth of horror’s drooling tongue started licking them in the form of their faintly glowing hands, the Doctor did realise this was probably bad news. That this situation had gone from weird to worrying. And they should probably do something about it. Probably. Definitely.

After a week of being confined to the Tardis because the gentle orange glow they gave off attracted attention, the mysterious pseudo-regeneration finally decided to stop being a tease and the bubble popped. A little. Like a balloon releasing some air, their hands burned. The Doctor screamed. The mouth snapped shut. But this wasn’t hell yet. Oh no. They had a lot to look forward to.

* * *

The Master walked into his console room, annoyed at having been disturbed in his work by the insistent beeping of the Tardis-to-Tardis messaging system.

“What now,” he muttered, flicking a switch and seeing the Doctor’s message appear. A picture of a green moon – hospital – and SOS. He frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Call an ambulance?”

His Tardis beeped in shared confusion and something lit up on the screen. _Automatic message._

“The Doctor’s _Tardis_ sent this?”

His Tardis confirmed. He considered for a moment, looking back wistfully at his project in the other room, before starting the task of tracing the Doctor’s Tardis.

The Master stepped out warily onto an unassuming moon that didn’t have much going for it. No life, no resources, no disputed territories, nothing interesting, just some dime a dozen rocks. The Doctor’s Tardis was parked haphazardly. Not crashed, but barely. The flight had given the Master enough time to think through the possibilities. What kind of situations the Doctor could get into that would call for an SOS message. With a green moon. What was that about?

What he found when he opened the door of the Doctor’s Tardis was nothing he had expected and worse than everything he had.

Slumped in a corner of the console room, in a pool of blood that shimmered like an oil spill, sat nothing that even remotely resembled the Doctor. Something wounded, something dying, something that all the Master’s senses were telling him was already dead, but moved like it was living. Living against better judgement, in profane defiance of the natural.

The Master recoiled, was about to run, when the dead thing spoke, and in doing so turned into a living someone.

“Koschei,” Theta whispered, like a prayer to the devil when God and all His saints have already refused your call.

“Koschei,” like they’d been saying it for hours, half-conscious pleas carried on stuttering breaths that flickered between life and death, unable to do anything but pray, too fearful to hope.

“I’m here,” the Master responded reflexively, rushing over, trying to understand the scene in front of him and reconstruct the events that could have brought it into existence.

“I’m here,” he repeated, kneeling in the blood in front of his friend and reaching out to their desperate grabbing hands, voice softening, “I’m here.”

The Doctor sagged in relief as their hands found the Master’s.

“Help,” they begged, “ _help_ , Koschei, I’m scared, I’m so–”

With a noise like a hiccough they stopped talking, stopped _breathing_. They looked at the Master with wide panicked eyes that had an orange tint, wide open mouth through which no air flowed. Sparks skittered beneath their skin and jumped out of their nose and mouth, leaving a blistering trail. They dug their fingers into the Master’s arms in breathless panic because– _because their respiratory system was reshaping itself._ The Master stared at them, horrific realisation dawning, and when the Doctor gasped and took a rattling wet breath through their newly formed respiratory system, the Master said, “You’re regenerating.”

The Doctor coughed up a small orange cloud, eyes wet and red-rimmed.

“It’s wrong,” they moaned. “It _hurts_.”

“Of course, of course it does, of course,” the Master said, holding the Doctor’s arms steady as pieces were falling into place. He reconsidered the blood the Doctor – both of them – were sitting in. It wasn’t just blood; there were clumps of tissue, things that could be bones, a couple of fingers (his eyes flicked to the Doctor’s, they had ten), and half a leg, a knee, maybe the left. (They had that too. It was bloody – ragged, open skin visible through their ripped trouser leg – but intact.)

“You’ve _been_ regenerating,” the Master realised, fighting nausea.

The Doctor nodded.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.” The Doctor shook their head. “I don’t know. Long. _Long_. It wasn’t like this at first. It was–” They doubled over in pain, head hitting the Master’s shoulder. He held the Doctor's shuddering shoulders while defective regeneration ripped through their torso sharp as a knife and sputtering like a failing engine. He could see the glow through their clothes and tentatively put a hand on their back. He couldn’t keep it there for longer than a second. Fevered was an understatement. A pyre, was a more honest description. A witch being burnt for her magic.

When the glowing and sputtering ebbed, the Doctor stilled, breathing heavily, head still leaning on the Master. Then they spasmed and threw up something in the Master’s lap. He gently pushed them back, holding onto their shoulder with one hand and poking the reddish blob in their lap with the other.

“Is this your stomach?”

“Half, I think,” the Doctor said, wiping their mouth. “Think the other half is bleeding,” they mumbled, before looking up to meet the Master’s eyes, desperate. “It won’t _stop_. It keeps–” they cut themself off with a scream as their hands, _only_ _their hands_ , burst into flames. The Master watched them scream and felt infinitely grateful that this wasn't happening to _him._

The Doctor dropped their head, panting, holding their hands out in front of them, carefully spread fingers.

“You’re not healing,” the Master said, looking at their bright red hands, criss-crossed with cracks like rivers of golden lava.

The Doctor shook their head. “I am, it’s just...” they breathed heavily, “...confused. I– It’s all wrong. It’s all going in turns instead of at the same time. Things burn and don’t get replaced. Things get replaced but don’t burn. That’s why the–” they gestured at the pile of body parts beside them. “It keeps making new things, but there’s no place, and the old things get p–” they shuddered and stammered, “– _pushed out_.” They met the Master’s eyes with a child’s bottomless terror. “ _It won’t stop._ ”

The Doctor’s eyes went wide as the fire in them flared and their nose started streaming something that had the syrupy consistency of blood, but a glittering golden colour. They dropped forward, legs sliding out into the mess of blood and guts, and the Master caught them, turned them around, pulled them close, held their head against his chest, watched liquid gold flow over his sleeves.

“Make it stop,” Theta whined. “ _Make it stop_.” Heat radiated from their head, heating the Master’s skin through his clothes. He wrapped both arms tighter around them.

“I’m gonna die, Kos,” they whispered hoarsely.

“You’re not going to die,” the Master whispered, kissing their head. They smelt rotten, like death. No, not _like_ death, _actually_ dead. Like a human, but worse. Musty, like Time was going stale inside them.

Their raw tender fingers found the Master’s and gripped them like they could bring salvation. “I’m dying.”

“Stop whining,” the Master snapped. “What happened? What caused this?”

“I don’t know,” the Doctor groaned. The Master jostled them in response.

“ _Try harder_. Did you get injured? Why did you start regenerating?”

“I don’t–” they yelped as their legs started sparking and swung their arms around trying to get the Master to move out of burning range. The Master got an uncoordinated bloody hand to the face but only held on tighter as the Doctor kicked and screamed as their legs caught fire and lengthened by ten centimeters.

“Leaves,” the Doctor croaked, when the fire had stopped. “Some kind of leaves.” They leaned their head back against the Master, their skin prickly hot and sticky where it met his.

“Touched them, ate them, smoked them?”

“Red,” they managed, “and pointy.”

“Poisonous? Did they make you regenerate or only caused it to go wrong?”

The Doctor groaned, in pain or frustration or despair.

“Okay,” the Master tried again. “Where did you get them?”

The Doctor gestured at the console. The Master gently pulled them up to see if they would sit. When they didn’t, he carefully put their head down on the floor and dashed to the console to check the navigation history. He read the most recent one out loud.

“Is that it?”

The Doctor shook their head.

“Come on, Thete, work with me.”

“Go back a month.”

“A _month_?”

“Tardis time,” they mumbled, closing their eyes.

“That wasn’t my issue,” the Master muttered. He raised his voice, “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

The Tardis beeped.

“Oh that’s right, you didn’t call me at all!”

“Wasn’t so bad, thought I could fix it.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response and instead read aloud a destination from about a month ago. The Doctor shook their head. The Master tried the next one, and the next one, and the next, and a couple more after that, until the Doctor made a noise.

“Is that it?”

“Might be.”

“That’s fourty-seven days ago on your Tardis calendar,” the Master muttered, seething. He didn’t expect a response to that and didn’t get one. He copied the coordinates and was out of the door almost before they’d landed, looking for someone to threaten with severe bodily harm. He ignored the Doctor yelling after him not to kill anyone.

* * *

Barely half an hour later, the Master walked back in, leaves in hand, slamming the door behind him. He walked over to the Doctor face down on the floor and rolled them over, revealing a fresh puddle of blood and four eyes on the floor. He took a sharp breath.

“Theta,” he said tentatively, “Theta, you there?”

He got a soft hum in response.

“I found the leaves, I think I did. Do you have eyes?”

“Tell me.” The Doctor opened their eyes.

The Master sighed in relief. “You do.” He poked one of the eyes on the floor. “You lost a few.”

“Had a feeling.”

“Are these the things you ate?” He held up the leaves. The Doctor blinked slowly a couple of times, sitting up a little. “Can you see?”

“I think so.”

“You think you can see or–”

“Did you kill anyone?” the Doctor interrupted. It would’ve sounded sharper if they weren’t slurring slightly.

“For Rassilon’s sake.”

“Did you kill anyone to get these?”

The Master rolled his eyes. “Did _you_?”

“No.”

“Well then.” He held the leaves out to the Doctor to confirm.

The Doctor made no move to take them. “ _Koschei._ ”

The Master looked at them darkly. “ _What._ ”

“Did you–”

“No! Just confirm these are the leaves you _poisoned yourself with_ so I can _stop you dying_.”

The Doctor narrowed their eyes suspiciously.

The Master scoffed. “Your priorities are ridiculous. Would you accept the antidote I make from these leaves if I had killed someone for them?”

“No,” the Doctor said slowly.

“There you go then.”

The Doctor conceded and took the leaves from him, sniffing them. “Yes, I think this is what it was.” They stuck out their tongue to taste and the Master snatched them back.

“What are you _doing_?”

“What’s it going to do? Make me die more?”

“Let’s not find out,” he muttered. “I propose we find out the chemical composition of these things, see what would be the most likely component that could interact badly with regeneration, we make the opposite of that, and then you eat that.”

The Doctor blinked at him with bleary, orange-crusted eyes.

“How are you too sick to make yourself better, _Doctor,_ but not too sick to lecture me about morals?”

They shrugged, losing their balance and lying back down on the floor. “Lots of practice, I suppose.”

“Okay,” the Master said, standing up, “ _I_ find out the chemical composition of these leaves, _I_ figure out what the most likely culprit is, _I_ make the opposite of that, and then you still eat it.” He looked at the Doctor, lying on the floor with their eyes closed, glowing faintly orange, and his voice softened. “You can wait here.”

* * *

Figuring out and creating the antidote took longer than either of them wanted. The Master hauled a bunch of instruments over to the console room. Working in the laboratory would be more efficient but he felt uneasy leaving the Doctor alone. Although to watch them be ripped apart by their own body, confused about its place on the alive-to-dead spectrum, wasn't exactly what you would call 'easy' either.

The Doctor seemed to be going through regeneration as a series of disjointed stages, instead of one cataclysmic metamorphic event. Their limbs burnt in turns, without the relief of temporary insensitivity, natural superresiliency, or momentary loss of awareness that came with normal regeneration. From their burnt hands new fingers kept growing, with a stubborn and misguided certainty right through the old ones, until the bones and skin couldn’t take the strain anymore and broke off with cracks that the Master could feel in his teeth. Torn skin knitted itself back together with an ambitious and oblivious enthusiasm, not knowing or caring about whether skin should be where it was growing. Just eager to fix.

Their brains turned themselves inside out and from their eyes and ears and mouth and nose the Doctor bled golden goo. Thick as treacle and enough to drown in, neither of them was entirely sure _what_ it was.

“Your molten brain?” the Master suggested.

The Doctor, on hands and knees, just opened their mouth to let a stream of the stuff fall out.

The Master shook his head in dismay and turned back to his work. “You have _no_ manners.”

* * *

They threw up half a butchery shop in organs. The Master looked up from the microscope.

“What do you think you have left in there now?”

“Don’t know,” the Doctor said, voice thick. They prodded their stomach experimentally. “Feels empty.” They threw the Master a skewed grin. “Want to see what happens if I eat something?”

“Are you hungry?”

They grimaced, shaking their head. “Are you?”

“You actively decomposing in the corner spoils the appetite a little.”

“I’m still alive!” the Doctor protested.

“Hm, debatable.”

* * *

Instead of death burning itself out in a flash to sprout disorienting life, it prolonged itself, stretched Time so thin it snapped and spiralled, leaving the Doctor teetering indefinitely on the precipice of a cliff that didn’t exist. The odds of falling so staggering that their time sense told them it had already happened, and they sat trembling, waiting for the ground to reach them and make them someone new.

“I’m dead, I’m dying, I’m dead, I’m dying, I’m dead,” they murmured with a hymn-like cadence, rhythmic and consistent like the memory of breathing.

“You’re living, you’re alive, you’re living, you’re alive, you’re living,” the Master echoed back, just as persistent. Though he didn’t look at them, he wasn’t lying. The Doctor _was_ alive, it was just that they were dead too. It was obscene, he didn’t want to see it.

Their quiet reassurances cancelled each other out while they waited for the terrified sobbing of death to flip into the terrified sobbing of life. The difference was negligible.

* * *

Like waves rolling onto shore and ebbing back into sea the Doctor moved from enough awareness of the situation to hold a conversation, to not understanding themself to be anything at all. Their sense of time, memory and self, disintegrated. The Master watched them, watched their frantic mind try to put things in order and come up with sand slipping through fingers. The universe as disconnected parts. The inability to make them hang together. Infinite potential, sense nonexistent. That was the peak of it. The moment you stopped being one thing and started existing anew, as the same but another. It was the apotheosis. Divine, is how it was supposed to feel, transcendent. Not _this_. This was abject. Abominable.

* * *

When the antidote was almost done and the only thing left to do was wait for it to finish synthesising, the Master watched the Doctor shudder with a partial regeneration that seemed determined to stay just on this side of awful, tauntingly bending boundaries with just enough restraint not to break them, rubbing itself against the edge of the knife like an affectionate dog, slicing off pieces of the Doctor as it went.

“What does it feel like?” the Master asked, his voice sounding smaller than he expected, bouncing around the console room to land in a squishy stomach lying rotting in the corner.

The Doctor looked up, their sweaty face gleaming a shimmery orange, crumbly amber chunks in their hair, blistering tear tracks under wet glossy eyes. It was like their regeneration was forcing its way painstakingly out of all of their pores.

“I imagine–” they started, swallowing a mouthful of glittering velvet, “I imagine rather like a volcano does moments before eruption,” they managed before screaming and doubling over, fire cleaving their back in two and drenching their shirt in wet gold. Panting, they looked up at the Master, dark amusement in their eyes. The Master smiled wryly.

“Almost done?” the Doctor asked, nodding toward where the antidote was synthesising. The Master checked.

“About an hour.”

The Doctor groaned and dropped their head to the floor. The Master came over and pulled them into his arms. They protested but didn’t have the strength to push him away.

“I’m gonna burn you,” they mumbled, leaning their head against the Master’s chest despite themself.

“Hm-hm, yep.”

The Doctor sighed but didn’t resist anymore.

* * *

The antidote didn’t work. There was a moment of hopeful anticipation while they waited to see what the effects would be, but then the Doctor did another half-regeneration, clinging to the Master as their respiratory system caught fire again. After an eternity, they coughed, a cloud of orange smoke that smelt like burnt flesh and decaying Time. They looked at the Master.

“Just throw me in a black hole.”

“This was just the first attempt, we can try again.”

“I can’t– I can’t do–”

The Master shook them. “You _can_ , you did this for almost two months before I even got here. You’re not stopping now.”

“I’m _dying_ ,” the Doctor hissed, meeting the Master’s eyes. “I want this _over with_. Kill me.” They deflated. “Just make it stop. Please.”

The Master opened his mouth to protest but stopped as something occurred to him. “Oh.”

“What?”

“That might be it.”

The Doctor groaned. “Not the time for riddles.”

“We have to kill you.”

The Doctor’s eyes widened in alarm, then understanding, and finally cloaked fear. They swallowed. “You think so?”

“You know what I think,” the Master said impatiently, already moving to the next step, scanning the room. “It has to be quick. Easy to regenerate–”

“ _Easy_ ,” the Doctor muttered.

“–can’t have you get confused and do _this_ again–” He gestured vaguely at the Doctor, who took offense.

“ _I’m_ not doing anything!”

“–also can’t go too far and have it be permanent.” He stood up, turning to the Doctor pointedly. “ _No_ black holes.”

“So, what then?” they asked, shrugging, already onboard, regardless of their reluctance. “Aspirin?” they proposed, just as the Master said, “Stab both hearts?”

They narrowed their eyes at each other.

“Bit violent,” the Doctor said.

“You have aspirin?” the Master asked.

“I have humans on board!”

“Right now?”

“No, not right now,” they muttered.

“But you’ve got aspirin?”

They shrugged. “I think so.”

“I’ll check,” the Master said. “Where?”

“Kitchen.”

“You keep the stuff that can kill you in the kitchen,” the Master said, shaking his head. “How have you not accidentally killed yourself yet?”

“Bleach,” the Doctor countered. “Dish soap!”

“Like you’ve cleaned anything in your life.”

“Just go check!”

“Couldn’t find it,” he said, walking back into the console room a few minutes later.

“Did you steal it?”

“Why would I steal it?”

“Is it in your pocket right now?”

“No...” the Master said slowly, putting his hand in his pocket. “ _This_ is in my pocket.” He pulled out a pocket knife.

He felt the Doctor’s wary eyes on him as he carefully pried it open. Their imminent complaint hung in the air (“ _Why does it have to be your way?_ ”) but they got robbed of their voice before they could say anything.

The Master watched as their mouth filled with rebellious bodily fluids, their eyes wide and helpless as they heaved and choked like a cat with a hairball until they managed to spit out a clump of angry yellow flesh in a puddle of fuming orange. He scrunched his nose in disgust.

“Is that–?”

“Temporal spleen.” They coughed.

The Master stared at the spleen, blown up to thrice its usual size, twisting and writhing and pulsing with thick regeneration energy that oozed out like pus.

He looked at the Doctor, whose light was leaving them, skin draining into a green-tinted grey. They swayed and reached for the Master’s hand, the one holding the knife.

“Your way, we’re doing your way.” They sat up as best they could, presenting their chest, their hearts, to the Master. Their hand on his, guiding and bracing both. “Do it.”

As if gravity had commanded him, he dropped to his knees in front of the Doctor, knife angled and aimed. The Doctor’s grip on his hand tightened, soft fingertips sticky with blood pushing his hand away, almost imperceptibly, while the Doctor leaned forward until the tip of the knife brushed their stomach, still harmless through their shirt.

The Master, ruthless but gentle, challenged the resistance of the Doctor’s fear, described by their quiet ragged breaths, as he traced the lowest of their ribs with the edge of the knife until he found a pliable spot of soft skin to persuade.

He met the Doctor’s sunken eyes. Covered in blood and rot and death and time and still the blood and bile on their lips glimmered vivid golden. They smiled wryly, eyes dark.

“You’re a bit eager.” A croaky whisper like this was a secret.

The Doctor’s pupils looked like black holes in rings of living fire. The Master swallowed.

“Do you blame me?” he breathed.

The Doctor blinked, eyes soft. “No.”

They dropped forward, forcing the Master to catch them on his knife. He turned sharp when he realised, driving the knife in with a vindictive bloodthirst. He felt it scrape against ribs until the entire blade had disappeared beneath the Doctor’s skin. He looked into their eyes, smiled a smile like sweet venom, and twisted it.

The Doctor gasped and the Master took the knife back, boiling blood flowing over his hands like a gift. He stabbed their other heart in reciprocation, a promise made good on.

He caught them as they slumped, knife still in hand, and lowered them to the floor. They held eye contact as the life left the Doctor’s eyes along with the blood leaving their body.

The Master stepped back, eyes trained on the Doctor as the sharp scent of copper filled his nose and the gentle fizzing of approaching regeneration filled his ears. Entranced, he grinned when the waves of orange started pulling through the Doctor’s body. Strong and rhythmic like heartbeats, like breath, like oceans and orbits, like a force of nature, unstoppable.

He dropped the knife, forgotten, he stood transfixed. His grin widened as he watched the blood begin to glow and turn into light so bright it hurt his eyes. This body held starlight. How could they bear it? To keep themself contained like that. To fit themself into a human shape.

When they showed their incandescent underbelly, consumed by what they were made of; it was Light. And it was good. The Master sighed. _This_ was good.

The sun went out slowly, hid itself like a solar eclipse behind a small, cold, planetary body that only showed its life-giving origins in its dim golden halo.

The Master smiled. “Hello.”

The Doctor smiled back, radiant. “Yes!”

The Master helped them up. “Remember anything?”

“I’m alive!” they said, a mouthful of palpable relief. “It worked.”

“Told you.” He held onto the Doctor’s hand, coagulating blood sticking their fingers together.

“You’re insufferable.”

The Master failed at feigning annoyance. “You’re welcome.”

They looked up at him, glowing like cooling metal. They looked new.

The Doctor grinned. “I _am_ new.”

Holding the Master’s gaze, they leaned forward, hand in bloody hand, as if that knife were still between them, challenging and imploring. _Do it._

Koschei closed his eyes when they kissed him. He tasted Life and Time and the primordial chaos from the beginning of the universe.

**Author's Note:**

> im working on finishing the timeless/deathless fic, but uhh i need the dopamine boost of comments (fingers crossed) and i have too much apathy to have standards anymore. what is good writing anyway, i cant tell. i wrote this a while ago and never posted it, im still not entirely satisfied, it's not as ~Elegant~ as i would like it to be and i have some repetitive descriptions i think but there are some sentences in here that i like. and like i said, i need Validation and dont have standards.
> 
> i also made a writing blog to explore writing body horror a bit more because i got a taste for it i guess. havent written anything on it yet but im hoping to kinda kick myself into making the jump to short original fiction this way. (i'll probably just like, take Certain characters and push them further and further out of character until ive accidentally created some characters of my own) (i hope i dont regret this later) it's at unravellinglikebutchery.tumblr.com if anyone's interested. i'll try to start posting some stuff there soon. (if i fail, let's pretend i never said anything)
> 
> title is from ee cummings 'i like my body when it is with your body' because that's Fitting


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